


this town's too small to be mean

by crypt



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Cowboy AU, Domestic Fluff, M/M, various other bruins - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-02-01 03:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21358867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crypt/pseuds/crypt
Summary: The next few days pass without incidence; Matt sleeps on the cot in his attic and tries not to let his eyes or hands linger too long on Anders. Anders tries to help tidy up around the house, saying that he hates being cooped up in bed, and Matt weeds his vegetable garden, hearing the off-key sounds of Anders’s singing drift out his windows while cleaning. Matt hates that Anders fits in his heart and his home like he’s lived there the whole time and he hates his traitorous mind more for constantly reminding him of it.(ie. they live together and Anders really yee's Matt's haws)
Relationships: Anders Bjork/Matt Grzelcyk
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	this town's too small to be mean

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fridgefish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fridgefish/gifts).
  * Inspired by [black gold](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19048861) by [fridgefish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fridgefish/pseuds/fridgefish). 

> lovely edit job done by @notmytypewriter ily!  
disclaimer: this might not make much sense if you haven't read @fridgefish's black gold first since it's set in that AU

The thing about small towns was they felt safe, normal, and peaceful even when they most certainly weren’t. Case in point, it only took about a week for the dust to settle around town and another week still for people to settle back into their routines after the attack. Things were more or less the same, except for a few slight hiccups like the new residents who had come into town with Coyle, the discussion of constructing new oil rigs, and taking care of the injured.

After the attack, the townspeople had moved the injured into the old creaky church in the center of town to better take care of them. Matt had been charged with watching after the kids hidden in the church basement and took them to their homes to spare them the grisly sight. After making sure the young ones of the town were safe, he had returned to the church to help. Pastor Jack was helping find injured townspeople temporary homes with people who could look after then. Matt wandered over to see if he could help, still rattled from the incident, but he figured it was the least he could do. 

Looking back on it now, Matt had no idea how or why he agreed to look after Anders, but he does remember Jack pointing him on on a cot in the corner and immediately feeling his heart convulse in his ribcage. Anders was halfway to lying down, slumped on a pew while Mr. Brickley, the town’s librarian, applied bandages that seemed to do nothing for the fresh splotches of red spreading across the white gauze. He looked quiet and small in a way that Matt had never seen him, and something bitter and sad bubbled up Matt’s throat and spilled out into a whisper in the dusty air.

“Yes, I’ll take care of him,” he quietly told Jack, who gave him an encouraging clap on the back as they made their way over to Anders and Mr. Brickley. Anders was wincing in pain as he got stitches on the part of his shoulder that wasn’t bandaged, but his expression smoothed out as he saw Matt approach. 

“Does it hurt?” Matt kicked himself as soon as the words were out of his mouth, how stupid, of course getting his shoulder shot, cut, and kicked in would hurt.

“No, no, yknow, all in a day’s work, right?” Anders told him through gritted teeth, very obviously in a world of pain. His grip on the edge of the chair was so tight that his knuckles were white as Mr. Brickley pressed around the joint to make sure there weren’t more serious injuries. Matt’s heart wrung itself into worried knots as Anders gave him a watery-eyed smile. Jack watched the whole thing, exchanging a muted smile with his husband, as if to say,  _ kids, am I right? _

“So Anders, we’ll ask one of the guys to bring over your things so that you can be taken care of until your shoulder heals.” Mr. Brickley told him as Anders stood up slowly, arm in a sling and shoulder bandaged.

“What? Taken care of? I don’t need any help, it’s just a shoulder, and yknow, the horses- they need me to be there for them. All the gunshots and hollerin just about scared them to death, they really do need me. And I don’t want to be a burden on you two.” Anders started griping only to be met with a couple of disbelieving looks.

“You wouldn’t be a burden on them,” Matt said quietly, and Anders turned to him.

“Right, see? I’m fine on my own.” Anders looked like he was going to continue protesting until he was blue in the face.

“I was going to take care of you.” Matt quickly cut him off.

“What?” Anders fell quiet and he looked at Matt, then his arm, and back to Matt. “I guess it couldn’t hurt,” he conceded after a pause. “I’ll still need to take care of the horses, though!” Anders added when Jack laughed, poorly disguised as a cough.

“Smarmy old coots,” Anders complained as they walked away, with Jack calling out to “not rush his recovery time, y’hear now?” as they went to Matt’s house for the night. Upon crossing the threshold, Matt realized he had left the house in no state to receive company, and who could blame him? The town had been threatened! Looking over the unswept hearth in the sitting room and the books and papers scattered across his desk, Matt felt his face heat at the thought that Anders would consider him a slob. Anders let out a low whistle as he looked around Matt’s small house.

“You sure keep a clean place, huh Matt?” Anders told him with a grin. Matt stared back at him, looking for sarcasm in his face, but findingly only wholehearted appreciation. Matt thanked him and decided he didn’t want to ever see what Anders would have called messy. 

“You can take my bed,” said Matt, pulling some extra linens out of the wardrobe, “I’ll be on a cot in the attic.” 

“Are you sure? This is your house, your bed,” said Anders “I don’t want to kick you out of your own bed.” 

“I-” Matt paused, looking at his small room and narrow bed, “it’s really fine, I’ve got a small room anyway. I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable this way.” Matt had done as well for himself as any small-town schoolteacher could hope, and his room was comfortable and well-furnished, but small and humble nonetheless. They both stood in the room for a while, Matt pretending to dig through the wardrobe and Anders pretending not to watch him. They were two bodies in a small room, filled with a silence larger than the both of them. 

After making sure things were more or less in order for Anders, Matt felt the tiredness seep into his limbs, slowly and then all at once. After exchanging awkward goodbyes, Matt closed the door on his way out and trundled upstairs, lamp in hand.

Matt awoke early the next morning, courtesy of his curtainless attic window dumping the first sunlight of the day gracelessly onto his face. When he went to go downstairs, he heard a clang and a swear from the kitchen. 

“Anders? That you?” Matt asked. The aforementioned houseguest stood by the stove, wearing a sheepish grin.

“Howdy Matt, sleep well?” he asked. Matt’s critical eye looked over Anders’s rumpled clothes, the same as the ones he was wearing yesterday. There was also cornmeal spilled on the counter and butter taken out of the icebox. It seemed the sound Matt heard was Anders fixing breakfast.

“I slept well enough,” he answered carefully, not knowing how to ask this next question. “Did you, by any chance, sleep in those clothes? I could’ve sworn I laid out nightclothes for you, I’m real sorry.” 

Anders chuckled softly in response, “No you did, but I just could not get undressed last night. Yknow, between the sling and the ol’ shoulder hurting when I move it at all.”

Matt could see some dried blood and patches of fresh red on the bandages beneath the shirt. “If you want, I could help?” he offered tentatively. Anders flushed a gentle shade of pink, but to his credit, managed not to sound shy when agreeing yes, it was probably for the best if he got some help. 

The rest of breakfast passed in comfortable silence and small talk about the upcoming fall. Afterwards, they sat down on Matt’s bed, and Matt grabbed a washcloth and basin from the bathroom. With gentle, steady hands, Matt took a deep breath and began carefully undoing the buttons on his shirt, first with his hands at Anders’s throat and working slowly downward. He’d never been so hyper-aware before in his life. Matt could feel the gentle push of Anders’s throat outwards as he breathed a little more deeply at the top button being undone, the ridge of an old scar as his hands progressed steadily down the other’s abdomen, and the almost-touch of their knees together on top of the faded, well-worn bedspread. 

Matt’s hands were worlds steadier than his head felt and it seemed like they would make it through this first morning without incident, his hands on the last button, when a loud, demanding knock at the door startled them both. His back immediately went ramrod straight, hands jerking upward, and with a small clack, the last button hit the floor.

“Oh- your shirt!” Matt dropped off the bed onto the floor, looking on hands and knees for the small button.

“Hey, it’s no big deal, Matt! I tuck my shirt into my pants anyway, right?” Anders swung himself off the bed to try and help, perched on his knees and his good hand, the other still in the sling. Matt leaned down further to check under the bed when the knock came again, louder and more insistent this time. Matt stood up quickly with a huff, ready to give the visitor a piece of his mind, only to smack his head into Anders’s chin.

Anders let out a stream of loud and colorful swears, holding the spot on his chin that had met Matt’s head while Matt clutched the wayward button in one hand and genuinely considered skipping town and moving to the Northwest Territories. Sure, he might get mauled by a bear, but it couldn’t possibly be any worse than this.

Anders waves off his frantic apologies and in an effort to run away, even just a little, Matt goes to finally answer the door. 

“Well, if it isn’t Matt at last! I’d knocked so long I thought you might’ve just up ‘n skipped town, huh?” Chris teases good naturedly, standing on his front step with Sean behind him. 

“Skipped town? I wasn’t going to but seeing y’all’s ugly mugs is making me reconsider that idea,” Matt laughs, inviting them in. “Now what can I do for you two?”

“Actually, we’re here for Anders,” Chris says, taking a seat in Matt’s living room. At the mention of his name, Anders pokes his head through Matt’s bedroom door, shirt still hanging open across his chest. Sean raises an eyebrow and nudges Chris, who in turn raises an eyebrow at Matt.

“Now I hope we didn’t interrupt anything,” Sean snickers and Matt’s plan to run away into the wilderness grows more real by the second.

“Ah, just get on with whatever you vultures came here to tell me about,” Anders laughs, shameless about his state of relative undress, “and leave Matt alone, he’s already got to live with me.”

While Sean and Chris ask Anders about his injury and tell him about how various other ranchers have volunteered to keep up his horse stables while he’s out, Matt takes the subtle opportunity to gaze at Anders in the morning light. His hair is dark gold in the sun, like the fields of wheat that grew around Matt’s childhood home in New England, and the rumpled open shirt gives Matt a perfect view of his chest. Cliche as it sounds, Matt can’t help but compare Anders to the heroes in fairy tales, eternally beautiful and strong in stories and songs. It’s not an unreasonably generous comparison, he tells himself. 

Matt can still remember that first warm day of spring, so many months ago, when school had just let out and the children had run across the street to the general store to buy fruit or candy with their pocket money. Anders had just stepped out, joking with Sean as he went to unhitch his horse from the post. Seeing the kids had been let out of school and were crowding around his mare, Anders swung some of them up onto the saddle, letting them hold the reins and pretend they were genuine, bonafide cowboys. Matt was at the doorway, emptying the wastebasket when Anders had caught his eye and flashed him a smile, and then and there Matt knew he was a goner. 

“Matt, hey- you hearing me?” and there’s Chris, asking Matt a question.

“I’m sorry,” Matt flashes him his most apologetic smile, “I guess I must’ve been miles away there. What’d you say?”

“I was saying it might not be a bad idea to hold off on starting school this week, give the kiddos a few days at home with their families.” Chris says.

“That’s a great idea, Chris,” Matt nods, “I was thinking the same thing myself. You wouldn’t mind passing on that message for me, would you?” 

“Course not, we’re on our way back to Sean’s store anyway, we’ll let the parents know.” Chris tips his hat and he and Sean stand up and make for the door.

“Awful nice of the other ranchers to keep up the stables while you’re gone,” Matt comments as they return to his room to finish up changing the wound’s dressing. Anders nods and winces as the gauze is unwound slowly, exposing a deep red gash in Anders’s shoulder, mottled with green and purple bruises. It’s bleeding sluggishly at some spots and scabbed over in others, and while Matt’s not squeamish by any stretch of the imagination, it still makes his stomach turn to think of what they did to Anders. The dried blood flakes off easily under the washcloth and Matt grabs a clean, white roll of bandages to wrap around Anders’s shoulder. 

“I’m going to need you to lift your shoulder so I can wrap the gash,” Matt tells Anders gently. Anders nods and lifts his arm obligingly with a wince of pain, his grip white-knuckled in Matt’s quilt. The quilt was soft and faded, patterned with blue flowers and Ander’s hand could not have been more out of place on the delicate quilt with his broad, calloused palms and long, capable fingers. After some heavy breathing from Anders and Matt carefully pretending he couldn’t see the pain Anders was hiding, the new bandages sat tight and clean on his shoulder. 

Matt rifles through the dressers to find a fresh shirt while Anders gripes about not being able to work. The mossy green shirt Matt holds up is loose and wide-necked, able to be pulled on over the head without buttons, he explains to Anders. In trying to pull it over Ander’s head of course, Matt does run into the problem that he is several inches shorter and has to stand on his tiptoes while Anders bows his head obligingly, but they do end up getting the shirt on. Matt helps him put the sling back on, running his hands down Anders’s arms perhaps a few more times than strictly necessary, unintentionally enchanted with the way the corded muscle jumps at his touch. They both stand facing each other for a moment, now fully dressed, with too much staring and too little talking for the situation to be completely comfortable.

“Well,” says Matt, “I’ve got to run into town for some supplies, will you be okay here for a while?” At Anders’s nod, Matt heads out the door into town, chest strangely tight at the thought of coming back to his home and seeing Anders there, nestled among the fixtures of his everyday life. 

It’s almost noon by the time Matt gets to the store and he shakes his head to himself as he wonders where the morning’s gone. The store is well stocked and the cool air inside isn’t the least bit dusty as Matt waves to Danton, who’s stacking jars of dilly beans on the shelves. Seems Danton decided to stay in town after arriving with Coyle, and Matt’s never been one to be accused of being un-neighborly, so he walks over to Danton to strike up a conversation with the quiet newcomer.

“Hey,” says Matt, “how are ya?”

“Fine,” Danton mumbles with a glance at Matt through his fringe of blonde hair and then back to the jars, “and yourself?”

“Well, I’m alright. Is Sean around? Y’all’re getting pretty close, huh?”

“You could say that,” Danton narrows his eyes at Matt curiously and then shrugs mildly, “you wanted to ask him something?”

Not wanting to step on Danton’s toes when he was so new in town, Matt figures he’ll stop prying, instead he tells Danton “I’m here for some clean bandages, and uh- ointment and such.”

Danton has moved onto rearranging the display of boot polish next the jars of beans and nods at the counter, “There’s a box under there of some supplies, you’re free to see if he’s got what you need.”

“Sure thing, much obliged.” Matt ambles behind the counter where Sean’s usually standing and pokes around. Sure enough, there’s a tin with some clean, white rolls of gauze tucked behind some other boxes. Interestingly enough, that means Danton must have been spending a whole lot of time here to know where Sean keeps the bandages. 

“Not satisfied with the work as the sheriff’s deputy huh?” Matt jokes to Danton, who lets out a tired sigh and looks at him like he’s been done with this conversation since Matt said hello.

“It’s a nice store,” Danton says with a shrug. Matt can’t begrudge him that but it’s surprisingly fun to tease him about Sean. “How’s the horse guy healing up?”

“He’s not the ‘horse guy,’ he’s got a name, you know.” Matt pokes his head up from the counter a little indignantly to see Danton’s lips quirked into a small smile and chuckles lightly. Not so much of a mysterious stranger as he thought, then. 

“Sure he is,” says Danton, opening the drawer under the counter to pull out Sean’s receipt book, “and you’re Matthew, the teacher guy.”

“It’s Matt,” he corrects with a slight cringe.  _ Ugh, Matthew, so formal. _ “And what kind of guy is Sean then?” Danton’s sporting a slight blush as he writes Matt’s purchase onto his tab in the receipt book.

“A nice guy. Real stand-up kind of fella,” Danton mumbles with a shy grin.

Matt walks out of the store with some bandages, a tin of ointment, and an agreement from Danton to stop by his house for tea that he acquired only after some hassling-not-technically-hassling. 

The next few days pass without incidence; Matt sleeps on the cot in his attic and tries not to let his eyes or hands linger too long on Anders. Anders tries to help tidy up around the house, saying that he hates being cooped up in bed, and Matt weeds his vegetable garden, hearing the off-key sounds of Anders’s singing drift out his windows while cleaning. Matt hates that Anders fits in his heart and his home like he’s lived there the whole time and he hates his traitorous mind more for constantly reminding him of it.

The days were warm with late summer heat but the nights were cool with the upcoming promise of fall and one evening, they spend hours in the kitchen together making stew. Anders adds wood to the stove with his good hand while Matt sits at the table, peeling and cutting vegetables. Outside, the sun was turning the sky pink and purple as it set over the plains. The beef, a pricey weekend indulgence, sizzles as it browns in the bottom of the pot and Anders pokes it around with one of Matt’s favorite wooden spoons. 

“You ever miss it?” Anders asks, breaking their comfortable, savory-scented silence.

“Miss what?” Matt says, upending two jars of crushed tomatoes into the pot and stealing the spoon from Anders to take over stirring.

“The sea, winter, home- all of it. You grew up in the northeast, right?” Anders hooks his chin over Matt’s shoulder to watch him cook, hunched over slightly to compensate for Matt’s shorter frame. 

“I guess I miss some of it,” Matt admits, turning to slide the cubed vegetables off the cutting board into the soup, “but I can’t say it’s all bad. Like for instance, the winters here aren’t as bad and there’s a lot more wide open sky to look at.”

“That’s all? Nothing else about that’s good?” Anders teases gently.  _ Nothing else- except for you, _ Matt thinks, opting to shake his head instead. Anders wraps his hand around Matt’s on the spoon and brings it up to his mouth to taste the food, blowing on it first. He makes a considering face and then lowers it to Matt’s mouth. Matt feels like a butterfly pinned to a board, his hand trapped between Anders’s warm, firm grip and the smooth wood grain of the spoon.

“Here,” he says, “you taste. I think it needs some more salt, right?” Matt can hardly open his mouth to speak, afraid that if he moves in the slightest, he’ll swoon like a heroine from a gothic novel from the familiar way Anders’s hand is wrapped around his. “C’mon, Matt, have a taste, I promise it’s not that bad,” Anders teases, bumping the edge of spoon against his lips. Matt smiles and obliges- he’s right, it does need salt, but it was warm and rich and it was something they had made,  _ together _ .

It’s another hour altogether before the stew is ready, and they sit at the table and drink beer while it simmers on the stove. Matt sits at the table with a pile of ungraded quizzes from before the attack, writing corrections in red with his fountain pen. School is supposed to restart next week, a sign that life truly is returning to normal. Anders toasts bread in a cast iron pan at the stove, dropping in buttered slices with his hand and trying to pick them up without burning his fingertips. Matt keeps sneaking fond glances and stifling his laughter when Anders occasionally burns his hand on the hot pan. 

Dinner is served a bit later than usual and Matt may or may not say a quicker grace than usual before they begin eating. For a few minutes, there are only the sounds of eating and the crackling of the fire from the stove. Comfortable and warm, Matt and Anders trade stories of their lives before moving to town, and speculate on what might happen to the town with the unexpected discovery of oil.

Matt is full, sleepy, and a little tipsy when they move to the bedroom to change Anders’s bandages before bed. The jagged line of the scar has grown thinner and the bruises become paler as the days pass and Matt is glad that Anders would no longer be in pain at every movement of his arm. However, it does also mean that soon Anders would leave for his normal life and Matt will return to his own bed and an empty house. But of course Anders won’t stay with Matt, he has things to do and horses to take care of and a life to get back to. And if Matt says goodnight to Anders that night with a heavier heart than usual, he hopes it doesn’t show. 

One morning, Matt comes down the stairs to absolute silence, which is unusual, because most of the time Anders is already up and fixing breakfast in the kitchen. When he checks the two rooms of his small house that aren’t his bedroom, it doesn’t look like anything’s been disturbed, so he knocks tentatively on the bedroom door in case Anders hasn’t woken up. A weak groan answers him and Matt immediately rushes in, a cold rush filling his chest at the thought that something terrible might have happened overnight.

“Anders, what’s going on, are you alright?” Matt peels back the covers to examine his shoulder and finds no blood on the cloth bandages.

Anders lets out a groan and cracks open an eye to look at Matt blearily, “I feel like horseshit. Pardon my language,” he adds weakly. Worriedly, Matt lays his hand across Anders’s forehead and isn’t all too surprised when he feels the skin there burning hot.

“You’re sick,” Matt says to Anders, pressing him back into the pillows when he tries to get up. 

“Sick?” says Anders, “I couldn’t possibly be sick, I’m usually healthy as a horse.”

“Usually, but that’s not the case right now,” Matt tells him sternly, adjusting the pillows so Anders can sit upright in bed. Matt immediately chills some wet towels in the icebox and begins looking through his medicine cabinet for cough syrup. He’s got no idea what’s going on with Anders- it couldn’t be pneumonia or influenza, Anders has hardly left the house in weeks. A million horrible ideas flit through his mind as he sets some water to boil.

Anders falls asleep shortly after Matt gives him some cold syrup and chamomile tea and Matt gently places a cold washcloth on his forehead as he stands to leave. School is supposed to restart in a few days and the pantry is running low. As loathe as Matt is to leave Anders alone like this, he knows he’s going to have to go into town. 

The light afternoon drizzle is starting to turn into a heavy evening rain by the time Matt makes it up the pathway to his house. He sets down his knapsack full of supplies and checks that the windows are latched securely shut. Not hearing any noise from his bedroom, he walks past to the kitchen, hoping Anders is getting some much needed sleep.

“Matt, are you back?” a small voice comes from the bedroom.  _ Oh god,  _ thinks Matt, and he rushes inside.

“Is everything okay? I’m so sorry, did I wake you up?” Matt peels off the washcloth from Anders’s forehead and he struggles to sit up. Matt places both hands on his chest, pressing him back into the pillows. 

“Shh,” he soothes, “you need to lie down and rest.” Below his hand, Matt can feel Anders’s heartbeat faintly, strong and steady, like the crash of waves against the Atlantic shore he loved as a child.

“You were gone when I woke up,” Anders mumbles feverishly, bringing his cheek down to nestle in Matt’s palm, his clammy left hand clutching Matt’s other hand, “where’d you go?”

“I had to go into town, get us some food,” Matt murmurs to him gently, feeling the scrape of stubble against his palm, “but I’m here now.” He feels like he’s talking to one of the younger schoolchildren with how loopy Anders is. Naturally the smile that gently breaks through can’t be helped. Dire as the situation is, his spirits could never be low around Anders. Even here, in Matt’s tiny bedroom with the rain lashing against the windows, it feels warm and safe and sweet just to feel their breaths in sync in the quiet of the bedroom.

“Can you stay now?” Anders nuzzles his cheek up and down Matt’s hand like a lazy housecat and Matt dies a thousand deaths as he feels his heart turn into mush and swish around his ribcage. 

“I need to make us some food, you need to eat, but I promise I’ll be right back.” The room is stuffy and small and Anders’s hand is clammy and hot, but Matt couldn’t be moved from his spot on the bed if the angel Gabriel himself came down and called him away. Anders makes no move to let him up and Matt doesn’t move a muscle to get out. Outside, the rain pounds against the window, churning the ground into mud.

“You will?” Anders has never sounded younger or smaller in this moment. Matt slips his hand out of his grip and holds out his pinky like he does with the smaller children in school when they’re nervous. They pinky swear on it, and Matt has to stifle a laugh, though he’s sure Anders would have done it normally too.

“I promise,” says Matt, “I’ll even bring my cot down here so I can sleep on the floor next to you.”

“No, don’t do that,” whines Anders, kicking at Matt from under the quilt “there’s room here with me, right?”

Matt’s heart catches in his chest and he gently tugs his hand away from Anders. He needs to leave before he does something he regrets, or worse, before he does something Anders will remember when his feverish haze passes. A whole world exists outside of the warm, syrupy bubble of Matt’s bedroom and the cool air of the kitchen beckons and there’s dinner to be made. Matt can’t sit here and hold Anders’s hands forever. But he sure wishes he could.

“Promise?” Anders asks as he heads to the door.

“Promise.” Matt agrees, leaving the door ajar as he heads to the kitchen.

The rain has died down to a gentle patter by the time Matt finishes fixing dinner for them both. Still, the wind whips against the windows and Matt is sure he’ll feel autumn’s chill if he steps out early tomorrow morning. He sits at the table and finishes his sandwich in a quick few bites and then brings a tray of food in for Anders. 

“You’re back.” Anders smiles sleepily at Matt, who begins shifting pillows so Anders can sit up to eat.

“That’s right, I’m back with food for you.” Matt beams at him, his heart and his world wrapped up in a single person sitting under a bluebell-patterned quilt. 

“I’m so lucky to have you looking after me,” Anders says, laying his heavy knuckles over Matt’s and giving his hand a squeeze. Matt hands him the spoon, but at seeing the way his hand limply grasps at it, he decides he’d better feed Anders himself and slips the spoon away.

At the first press of the spoon to Anders’s mouth, Matt immediately feels the blood rush to his face, pinking his cheeks, his ears, and the back of his neck. It feels smothering to treat Anders like this, like a baby bird in the nest, but he only wants Anders to eat well and rest well. And what then? Matt thinks to himself between spoons, what happens when Anders does heal? He’ll be alone again for sure. Anders will go back to the big estate a few miles out with his horses and his orchard and Matt will only see him when he swings by the general store across the school with his dumb smile and his dumb broad shoulders.

“You’re so brave,” Matt tells him when they’ve finished dinner.

“For eating soup? Come on, Matt.” Anders lets out a laugh. 

“No, I mean, for all this,” Matt gestures vaguely in the direction of the bandages. The shiny white scar of the wound peeks out from beneath the dressing and the white linen of the shirt.

“Oh this? I was just defending my town. Y’know, this is nothing- one time, I got thrown from a horse and I broke my collarbone.”

Matt chuckles and wrings out a fresh cool washcloth to drape over the jut of Anders’s brow.

“Well how’d that happen? I thought your horses loved you.”

“They do!” Anders waves his arm indignantly from where he’s lying sleepy and full, propped up only by three of Matt’s pillows. He launches into a story about his younger years, before he moved to start his own business, when he was still learning to ride at his family’s stables. Matt can’t help but laugh when Anders sleepily recounts to him the tale or how he took a sweater from the closet, the largest he owned, to slip over his favorite horse’s head because he thought she would be cold when he took her out that morning, and predictably, she had thrown him clear off and he had to be laid up in bed with a broken collarbone for the better part of a season. Anders finishes with a yawn, telling Matt it’s not so different from how he feels now.

“But now that, that was stupid. I was young then and I know better now and it won’t happen again. But this, this I’d do a million times over.” Anders mumbles, almost rolling over into his pillows. Breathless from laughter, Matt leans in a little closer and asks why.

“Because,” Anders takes Matt’s hand between his own, “because I was defending my town and all the things I love and I’ll do it a thousand times over if it means you’ll be safe.” Anders presses a quick kiss to his knuckles from where he lies slumped over Matt’s pillows, surrounded by all the soft trappings of Matt’s bed and all the depth of his unspoken love.

True to his word, Matt sleeps in the bed that night, afraid to even brush Anders with his pinky for fear of disturbing him. At some point in the night, Anders begins tossing and turning and burning up again. Matt, though reluctant to leave the warmth of his bed, braves the midnight cold to bring Anders a new cool cloth and two spoonfuls of cold syrup.

Whether or not Anders does have a cold, Matt can’t be sure. It’d take a doctor at least two days to reach their town from the nearest big settlement if he called, and the fact also remains that Matt hardly has the funds to afford a doctor, much less any medication said doctor would prescribe. At any rate, the bottle does what it says: Anders sleeps and his fever doesn’t rage quite as hot after a few spoons, but Matt hopes he’ll recover before the medicine runs out. 

Matt wakes in a gentle, comfortable haze; he’s content and well rested like he hasn’t been in years. The smooth rhythm of Anders’s breathing ruffles his hair and the beat of his heart is low and comforting where his cheek is pressed to Anders’s bare chest and oh god- Matt’s fully awake and back to panicking now that he realizes their proximity. Somehow one of his arms is snaked under his bedfellow’s torso and Anders has a tanned, muscled arm thrown over Matt’s pale, freckled shoulder and it doesn’t seem like he’ll be moving anytime soon. Of course, Matt doesn’t want to wake him and deny him his much needed rest, but he has to get up before Anders awakes and finds them in such a compromising situation. 

It’d just smash his heart to pieces if Anders were to wake and scramble away in a hurry or think that Matt was taking advantage of him somehow. All these weeks, he’s grown so used to the warmth that Anders brings to his small home and for Anders to leave when he’s healthy- that’d be one thing. But for Anders to rush his recovery and move to his own house or someone else’s, not meeting Matt’s eyes for fear of awkwardness? Well, Matt thinks he really would skip town at that. The thought of moving to the Northwest Territories, laden with pine and waterfalls, becomes more tempting each minute that passes and Matt can’t figure out how to extricate himself from the gentlest prison he’s ever laid in. 

“Hey, Matty, what’s wrong?” Warm words blow past his ear, heavy and muggy with sleep, startling him out of his thoughts. Anders strokes his hand comfortingly down Matt’s back like he would the flank of a startled horse.

“You’re stiff as a board, c’mon buddy, let’s go back to sleep, I’m still tired.” Silently, Matt sighs in some kind of confused relief and nestles into the crook of Anders’s shoulder. He can’t quite understand what just happened, but he’ll take what he can get. 

They wake up for real an hour later and the sun is high in the sky, shining down as if to make up for yesterday’s torrential rains. Matt goes out right after breakfast with the excuse that he’s got to make sure his vegetable patch didn’t take too much damage, but in reality he sits on the steps with a notebook and a fountain pen, putting words to paper for a good hour or so. Maybe he’s trying to avoid Anders. Maybe he isn’t, but writing has always helped him clear his mind.

It starts off as a letter he doesn’t intend to mail, just a quick hypothetical he can use to vent. Then Matt continues and he decides, better to let Anders know than to keep this to himself forever. The warmth between them doesn’t feel one-sided, and he’s never been one to assume that people like him- quite the opposite, really.

It starts  _ Dear Anders, _ the way any letter would. It goes, in so many words,  _ I love you _ and it keeps going. The words pull themselves out of his heart like tugging on a stray thread unravelling a sweater.

_ I love that you sing along to songs you don’t know and you make up your own words. I love that you run out to the barn in a thunderstorm to calm the horses down. I love you more than words can say. I know that you love the spring but flowers give you pollen allergies. I know you started an orchard of apple trees to see the pink blossoms and yellow bees in spring. I know you feed all the stray cats around town and they stay in your barn when it’s cold and I know a lot of things about you but I’m not a mind reader but I think you love me too and that we’d be good together. Please let me know if I’m misreading things here, I just don’t think I could handle one more day without telling you.  _

Matt writes that and more. And then he sits and writes a little more. By the time he’s done the sun is noticeably higher in the sky and the vegetable garden is still unweeded. The words on the page are all too real and Matt feels dizzy with what he’s confessed to. He folds the letter in a nervous rush and tucks it into his shirt pocket, resolving to focus on chores to distract himself. The enormity of his desire shocks and chills him all at once, like stepping barefoot on the first snow of the season.

That afternoon, when Anders falls into another feverish sleep, Matt finds the folded up note in his pocket and tucks it under Anders’s pillow for him to find when he wakes. He’d planned to hand it to Anders when he was well, but Matt knows he’s not quite that brave and he’s done with bold moves for today. 

Before Anders wakes, Matt leaves. He tells himself he’s not running away, he’s got a scheduled teatime with Danton, but it feels awfully cowardly to him if he’s being completely honest with himself.

Danton makes exceptionally good scones for someone who’s been on the lam for several years, and Matt finds himself enjoying the quiet man’s company more than he thought he would. They find themselves laughing at various stories from around town and tales from Danton’s time travelling and Matt’s time on the coast. 

“And did you know,” Danton mumbles at Matt with a subdued grin, “that Torey stuffs his boots to look taller?”

“Nooo!” Matt says, faux-scandalized, spitting out crumbs. Danton presses his lips together to keep from laughing but Matt can see the mischief spilling out of his eyes, clear as day.

“It’s true,” Danton snorts after a sip of tea, his spindly, pale fingers wrapped around a delicate mug, “I caught him restuffing his boots with yesterday’s newspaper one time at the station.”

“Oh, heavens,” laughs Matt, covering his mouth, “I can’t say it helps all that much, does it?”

“How would you know? You’re scarcely any taller than him.”

“Oh hush, beanpole, I’m still a little taller. Don’t tell him I said that, though. And don’t tell Brad neither, I can’t be taking sides here.” At Matt’s words, Danton mimes sealing his lips and tossing away the key.

“I’ve got to run,” says Danton, unfolding himself upwards from the table, “but uh, maybe we ought to do this sort of thing again.” Danton pinks up a little, Matt’s got the idea he’s not too used to keeping casual friends after years on the run with Charlie. “Of course,” agrees Matt, smiling warmly. After all, Danton’s quiet humor went overlooked by many but it was especially refreshing to Matt after years of loud blustering from folks like Chris and Brad.

By the time Matt gets home, Anders is awake but still lying in bed. He seems to be in better spirits than before but not back to his normal energy. Strong as the impulse is, it’d be too obvious for Matt to just check under Anders’ pillow for the note while they’re both awake and in the candlelight, but he has to know. Even that night, when he crawls into bed next to Anders, the question keeps running through his head. The last thing Matt notices before he falls asleep is that the comforting press of Anders’s body against his is no longer as feverishly hot as it was before. 

After two mornings, Matt knows Anders has the note. He’s seen the little folded up square in Anders’s pockets, moved from shirt to nightstand drawer to shirt again. It’s hard to keep secrets when they’re breathing each others’ air and living out of each others’ pockets but Anders hasn’t brought up the note at all. It’s been a few days in his possession though, so Matt feels safe assuming that he’s at least read it by now. It wasn’t like it was particularly long. His mind jumps between asking why Anders hasn’t mentioned it and whether he should bring it up himself. He swears his mind asks questions worse than when the kids in school will pelt him with nonsensical questions like how the clouds stay up and why the cows come in different colors but have the same flavor milk. 

But Anders just sits in bed and smiles at him, gentle and constant like nothing’s happened. Matt lies in his own bed at night, going quietly insane. He alternates between swearing he’s going to rip out his own hair and thinking Anders might just need some more time.

The next few days bring more signs of recovery. Anders gets out of bed for longer stretches of time and moves from bed to kitchen to outside. Matt goes back to teaching, though for shorter times each day, and most days when he feels alright, Anders will amble over to Sean’s store and bother him until Matt picks him up to walk home when school lets out.

Chris, Charlie, and some of the other townsfolk have been helping keep up the stables in the meantime, and Anders’s appreciation for the community bleeds through in every line of his body when they bring word of his horses while he hangs around the store. Matt almost feels guilty, like he’s the one keeping Anders from going home, but each time he remembers how much further Anders’s house is from town than his, he thinks he may as well enjoy their remaining time together.

It’s been eight days since Matt slipped the note under Anders’s pillow. Matt’s about to go crazy with anxiety. Why hasn’t he said anything? Why is he acting like nothing’s changed at all? Each passing day is another day that Matt seriously considers skipping town for the Northwest. He’s got his lavender farm all sketched out in his brain by now. 

Anders’s shoulder is healing, better with each passing day and that news doesn’t make Matt as happy as it should. Would Anders just keep ignoring the note until he’s well enough to leave? Matt feels guilt sit in his chest like a stone at the realization that he’s almost dreading Anders’s healing, even though he’s supposed to be his caretaker. It can’t be helped, of course, Matt knows he’s too nervous to bring it up on his own. He just sits back on his heels in the garden between harvesting parsnips and steals glimpses of Anders’s broad frame through the windows of his own house. 

On the ninth day, Anders finally says something. They’re both getting ready for bed, the initial awkwardness having melted into a tentative intimacy after repeated mornings awake in each others’ arms, tangled close like willow boughs. As Matt latches the window and draws the heavy curtains closed, Anders clears his throat from the bed.

“Oh also,” Anders fumbles around with his front shirt pocket and pulls out Matt’s letter, folded and worn at the edges “I think you left a grocery list or lesson plan under my pillow while I was sick.”

Matt can’t believe what he’s hearing. He takes the note from Anders and unfolds it in disbelief, the same words he wrote all those days ago staring back at him.

“You mean,” Matt swallows tentatively, hope unfolding in his chest, rising into his throat and choking him, “you mean you haven’t read this?”

Anders stares back at him and they are both silent for a moment, Anders’s face growing a blotchy sort of red on his cheeks and forehead.

“Um,” Anders looks down and fists his hands in the bedspread, “I can’t read,” he says quietly. 

Matt takes a deep breath and looks at him, the man who had lodged himself in his heart more deeply than any bullet could. Tall and broad, but looking smaller than ever between Matt’s patterned sheets with his bandaged arm, Anders holds out the note for Matt to take back. He thinks about abandoning his plan to confess in the first place. Anders hadn’t read the note, he didn’t know about Matt’s affections, there would be no worry of having his heart broken open like a child’s piggy bank when the circus rolled into town. 

But this was Anders, thought Matt, and Anders could never be cruel like that. How many times had Matt seen him whisper gently to his horses, calming them with the same hands that Matt had seen haul away heavy, broken fenceposts after a storm? How many times had Matt seen him carefully lift up children so that they could feed the horses apples and carrots when he rode into town for supplies, and how much longer was Matt going to wait before he said something?

He let out the breath he had been holding and Anders looked up from his embarrassed fiddling with the note.

“Anders,” Matt begins, “I love you.”

“Wow,” Anders blinks at him, “must’ve been an important note huh? Good thing I found it.”

What. What is he saying. Forget all the weeks spent nursing him back from his injury, Matt’s about to break Anders’s shoulder himself. Is he being obtuse on purpose? It couldn’t be, Anders didn’t have a mean-spirited bone in his body. Matt’s pretty sure he’s just obtuse naturally.

“No,” Matt steadies himself to try again. “I don’t know how to tell you this but I’m in love with you.”

Anders simply beams and shakes his hair out of his face, still sitting on the bed with the note loosely in his palms.

“Yeah Matty, I love you too. You didn’t know?”

Not “love” like that, Matt wants to scream. He lets out a close-mouthed yell of frustration and Anders snorts out a laugh like there’s nothing wrong here.

“Anders.” Matt takes a deep breath, “I am. In. love. With you.” Though he’s starting to rethink it with every passing minute. “I have been and I am now and I- I love you. Romantically. I don’t know how I can make this more clear-”

“I know, Matt. Listen, can I kiss you finally?” Anders cuts through the tirade Matt’s starting on.

“What? Yes, but okay- how do you not understand what I’m trying to say here-” and  _ wait, _ Matt’s brain stumbles and trips. Did Anders just ask if he could kiss him? Matt blinks at him. This whole situation makes little sense to him and it makes less sense by the minute as Anders reaches out for him from the bed, and Matt’s feet move unbidden towards him while his mouth is still busy over-explaining his feelings.

And then all of a sudden, he can’t form words anymore for the soft press of Anders’s mouth against his own. He opens his mouth to ask _ wait _ \-  _ did you want this? Are we allowed to have this?  _ But no words come out and instead the slick slide of their tongues lights him up from the inside out. 

Anders’s frame dwarfs his and his hands are familiar on Matt in a way he’s only allowed himself to dream of secretly. One hand is on the back of Matt’s head, grasping at the short hair that brushes the nape of his neck, and the other sits warm and heavy on his hip, Anders’s thumb rubbing along the v of his hip bones through the fabric of his trousers. Matt tips forward helplessly, chasing the warmth that blooms from their joined mouths. 

Something frantic pulses through his veins, making him feel like they’re no older than teenagers sharing a stolen moment in a hayloft, even though they’re adults alone in Matt’s home with the door locked. He feels desperate in a way he hasn’t for a long time and the feeling of Anders’s arm looping around his waist to pull them horizontal onto the bed turns his body into one continuous chant of  _ more, more, more. _

“Ow, damn.” Anders winces painfully and pulls away to rub at his shoulder. Fuck. Matt had forgotten about- well, he’d forgotten about everything that wasn’t the two of them. Matt scrambles backward and flattens himself against the door. That seals it, he’s definitely going to have to leave for the Northwest Territories now. 

“Wait, no, hey- c’mon you didn’t even hurt me that badly,” Anders says in a low tone with his hand held out like Matt’s a spooked horse.

“No, but I kissed you!” Matt doesn’t move back towards the bed and he can feel a strange swooping sensation like his stomach is trying to burrow into the ground.

“I mean I think I kissed you but yeah. What’re you going to do, tell a fella you love him and then not kiss him?” Anders is still speaking in that low, calm voice with his hand held out. Matt takes a step away from the door towards the bed.

“You knew? About me, how I felt? All along?” Matt says, still ready to bolt, but now Anders’s face is morphing into a confused expression, matching the way Matt feels.

“Well now, sure I did. That’s why you offered to take care of me all this time, right, because we love each other?”

“Are you fucking kidding me.”

“Wait, that’s not why you did this?” A dawning panic arises on Anders’s face and below the thick layers of panic, Matt feels a smug little sense of satisfaction saying  _ yes, now you’re confused like I am. _

“I was being nice! Like, neighborly, you know?” Matt gestures helplessly.

“We don’t even live next to each other, we’re not neighbors!” Anders scrubs a hand over his face and falls back onto the pillows with a huff of breath. “Being nice, I swear,” he mutters, hiding his eyes in a pillow, “I’m such an idiot.”

_ At least he’s self-aware, _ Matt’s unhelpful little brain says. Matt inches a little closer to the bed, he’s still not sure where to go from here. This really wasn’t how he imagined things going, if he’s being honest. His mind had given him an elaborate daydream straight out of a romance novel where Matt eloquently confessed his feelings by butter-yellow candlelight and Anders swooned and recited poetry to him. And also maybe gifted him a bouquet. In retrospect, he should have known things would go worse than that with his luck and all.

Anders is still burrowed in Matt’s covers, feeling embarrassed for himself and Matt casts his eyes towards the ceiling.  _ God plays jokes on us all _ , he thinks ruefully, walking to the bed. That’s what he gets for skipping Sunday service two weeks in a row, probably.

“Anders,” Matt gently lays his palm on Anders’s elbow over the covers.

“What?” his voice is small and his eyes are downcast, like a puppy that’s been yelled at for chewing up some slippers.

Matt cups his face in his hands and leans in for another kiss. He hopes it’ll say all that he can’t with words. Anders rises to meet him, unburrowing from the quilt like a sunflower turning to greet the sun. After a quiet few minutes, the comfortable silence broken only by the soft noise of their mouths, they break apart because Anders starts laughing, shoulders shaking with mirth.

“What? What’s so funny?” Matt asks indignantly.

“Aw nothing, darling, it’s just- well, we sure are fools.” Anders’s face is stretched into such a shit-eating grin.

“Speak for yourself,” Matt huffs, “how was I supposed to know? You never said anything.”

“Guess not,” he replies, but the Cheshire-cat smile doesn’t fall off his face. Another beat passes before he snorts and says “bein’ neighborly, I swear I don’t know where you come up with these.”

“Anders I’ll break your shoulder again, I’m serious!” Matt gives him a playful shove and finds himself pulled onto the solid plane of Anders’s chest, faces close enough to count his eyelashes.

“Oh no, heavens, I’d be stuck here for another month then!” Anders fakes a high pitched voice and rolls his eyes in mock worry and Matt drops his head onto his chest with a quiet laugh. No, he can’t say this is how he meant for tonight to go, but he supposes it’s better than his fears told him it’d go.

They wake up tangled close and holding tight and for once, Matt doesn’t pretend to be asleep just to steal a few more moments of being in his arms. Nothing’s changed and yet everything is different.

“Good morning,” Anders whispers into his hair, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“Yes it is,” Matt says, tilting his head up for another kiss, both their mouths clumsy and stiff with sleep. 

“Whatever did your note say?” Anders asks when they sit down to breakfast the next morning. Breakfast is later than usual after having thoroughly entangled themselves in a mess of limbs and sappy whispers, before remembering there was a whole world outside of their nest of quilts and covers.

Matt flushes an embarrassed red, thinking about all the things he wrote.

“I couldn’t possibly read it to you,” he says, “but if you learn to read, it’s yours.” Anders raises his brows at the attempt to evade the question and grins.

“Well alright, but only if you teach me how.”

Danton just about laughs Matt out of town when Matt recounts what happened with Anders when he visits a few days later. Chris and Sean had come over to give Anders more updates on his horses since he still wasn’t fully recovered and Danton had tagged along to come visit Matt, bringing a cloth bundle with rich, crumbly butter cookies inside.

The others are sitting inside, talking shop, and Matt had enlisted Danton to help him cut pumpkins off their vines as it was just about time for most of them to be harvested anyway. 

Before Matt and Danton went out to the garden, Anders had been unsubtle with the way his hands lingered familiarly over Matt’s shoulders and waist and Matt noticed Danton’s eyes darting between their faces with a sort of quietly hidden glee. Once they stepped outside, Danton hadn’t been able to wipe the smirk from his face.

“So?” He asked in his characteristic baritone murmur.

“So nothin’,” responds Matt, kneeling in the dirt to slice a pumpkin off its stem. He ends up telling Danton the whole story anyway, figuring people will talk eventually.

At first, Matt thinks Danton’s been hurt with the way he doubles over, but he realizes the quiet wheezes and shaking of his thin shoulders are just near-hysterical laughter. 

“You’re terrible,” Matt tells him, laughing himself now that the absurdity of his situation has settled.

“Not as terrible as your observational skills! Being neighborly, I can’t believe you,” Danton can’t resist getting a jab in as they deposit the orange gourds in a wheelbarrow. Matt intends to take them to the school for the kids to have something fun to do next week. 

Matt opens his mouth to retort smartly, but a bright slash of pain on his palm stops him. With a loud swear, he pulls his hand out of his pocket with a bloody gash in the middle. Great. Figures he’d put away his knife wrong and cut himself in front of the guy who used to handle knives for a living. To his credit, Danton doesn’t laugh, only takes Matt’s hand in his to inspect the cut.

“Not too bad,” says Danton, “it’s pretty shallow and it’s not as bad as it looks. Let’s get you inside though.”

Predictably, the guys all put up a fuss at the sight of Matt’s bleeding hand. He can’t be sure that they’re all quite so disturbed, since most of them have seen their fair share of far worse gore, but he’s flattered at their concern. 

“Aw geez, what happened out there? Pumpkins attack ya?” Anders darts up from his seat to where Matt stands at the door. Before Matt can say anything, he pulls out a kerchief from his shirt and presses it to Matt’s palm. Silently, Matt watches the blood seep into the silk and dye the lace edges red. It’s nicer than any kerchief Matt’s ever owned, and Anders just pressed it to Matt’s bloody palm like it was nothing. 

A sharp tearing noise calls Matt’s attention away from where he’s pressing the folded kerchief to his palm. Anders stands, looking all too pleased with himself, with a strip of his shirt in his hand, torn seemingly from collar to chest as the front of his shirt hangs open. He binds it around Matt’s hand and ties it with uncharacteristic care. Matt’s not sure how good Anders’s knowledge of wound care is, but well, the bleeding has stopped.

From behind them, Charlie lets out an amused sort of huff and all of a sudden, Matt remembers they have an audience.

“Well,” Charlie says with a low whistle, “I’ve never seen anyone bandage a wound with the middle of their shirt like that. Most guys usually tear from the bottom.”

“Aw give him a break,” Sean punches Charlie’s shoulder with a grin, “We can’t all be seasoned outlaws and bounty hunters, huh? Some of us are just small-town kids.”

Matt catches Danton’s eye and grins at the way he laughs a little louder at Sean’s jokes than anyone else’s. The two orbit each other like they’re afraid to fall into each other if they get too close. He can sympathize.

The next week, Anders decides he’s finally well enough to go bounding around town again. The two of them go to pay the horses a visit and Anders just about talks Matt’s ear off pleading for him to come and meet all the horses.

“Just for a few hours, you know I want to see the horses again.” Anders is still trying to convince Matt as they eat breakfast together. Their bare feet tangle under the table and Matt can’t help but smile and blush. Somewhere along the way, he finds himself agreeing to visit the stables.

Anders has his pockets stuffed with apples for each horse as he unlocks the stable doors. Matt is carrying a few in his hands as well, trailing just behind him. The air of the stable is warm and slightly musty and doesn’t smell as bad as Matt thought it would. It looks like the townspeople have been doing a fairly good job of keeping up the place, but Anders darts around obsessively making sure everything is okay anyway. Matt wanders up to one stall, where a large roan mare is nibbling contentedly at her hay net.

“I see you’ve met DB!” says Anders from behind him.

“Have I?” asks Matt, as she slowly plods over to them.

“Sure, DB is one of my favorites! She’s a little on in years but real sweet. Deuce-bagel, DB for short.” Matt would ask Anders what kind of name that is but he’s sure he’d get an even more ridiculous answer. DB snuffles gently at Matt’s head and shirt pockets, looking for treats. Anders clicks his tongue and pulls out an apple, which she happily begins to crunch on, slobbering everywhere with a vengeance. Matt pets her velvety nose gently and smiles at Anders, who is making dumb cooing noises at the horse about how much he missed her. 

“Okay, c’mon Matty, let’s go meet Checkuroh!” Anders wipes off some of the horse spit on his pants ineffectually and remembering he’s in front of Matt, pulls out a square of cloth to wipe his palm. It’s a worn square of cotton, ragged at the edges like it was cut from a shirt. Actually, Matt is pretty sure he’s seen that exact flannel pattern before on one of Anders’s shirts.

Feeling guilty at his own forgetfulness, Matt feels in his pocket for the smooth slide of delicate linen and lace on the kerchief Anders had bound around his palm. Matt pulls out the delicate handkerchief and holds it out to Anders. It’s a square of white silk, embroidered with off-white ivory flowers and leaves edged with white lace. In short, it’s a damn sight nicer than anything Matt could afford on his own.

“Here,” Matt tells Anders lamely, “I forgot to give this back to you from the other day.”

Anders stares at him blankly, still wiping down the grooves of his fingers.

“But I gave it to you,” says Anders, cramming the now-gross square of torn cloth back into his pocket and fishing out another apple to polish on his shirt.

“Surely not to keep,” Matt says with a wince, watching Anders hold up the apple to the stall and then taking a bite out of it himself right after the horse did.

“Why not?” Anders rubs his cheek against the horse’s, beaming at Matt. “It’s a great handkerchief, it’s really nice, my meemaw gave it to me before I left home.” His face falls a little and he pulls away from the horse to face Matt.

“Do you not want it?” He asks, like the possibility had just dawned on him. 

“What? No, I just- I guess I just thought you’d want something this nice back.” Matt is still holding said square of cloth, loosely in his arm by his side, now unsure of what to do with it. Anders looks a little awkward and the barn is quiet, save for the wet crunching of Checkuroh going to town on the apple, still in Anders’s open palm. Matt decides then and there that it doesn’t matter how much Anders should have his handkerchief back. He could push down the guilt of owning something nice to make sure Anders felt like Matt appreciated him, after all, he was the nicest thing Matt had ever seen.

“No,” Anders takes a step closer to Matt and Matt is seized with the sudden urge to run his hands across the broad, sturdy expanse of chest in front of him, “it’s yours now, and I expect you to take real good care of it. Just like my heart.” And then they’re kissing, again, the novelty of touching each other not anywhere near close to growing old. Matt can taste apple on Anders’s tongue, sweet fruit from the first harvest before the weather grows bitter. The air is warm but the mingling of their desperate breaths is even warmer and Matt feels like his knees are going to buckle out from underneath him, so he fists his hand in Anders’s shirt and threads the other through Anders’s shaggy hair like a lifeline. The slow, heavy slide of Anders’s hand down his chest to his stomach is overwhelming and Matt can feel himself trying to bury himself into Anders’s frame, hips pressed against a sturdy thigh. Even the slight twist of their heads in sync and the drag of tongues and the scrape of stubble is making his heart beat unevenly. Matt pulls away, finally, but he doesn’t let go and they stand there, breathing each other’s air in the sunny afternoon. 

“So I guess you’ve seen the stables, huh?” Anders drags the pad of his thumb across the line of Matt’s cheek. “How about we go inside and see the house?” 

“Suppose it couldn’t hurt, we don’t have anywhere else to be.” Matt leans into the gentle touch, wrapping his hand around Anders’s and revelling in the simplicity of it. He’s allowed to have this, at last. 


End file.
